Trust
by Kayt
Summary: Mid-film. The night after the Joker disrupts Bruce's fundraiser for Harvey, everyone has questions. Harvey and the Batman both might get more answers than they bargained for. Notes: Written for the Batman Kink Meme. My beta and buddy JenK is a rockstar.
1. Chapter 1

Something's in him, Pavolv-deep in his subconscious – he's up in a second, faster than bone-deep bruises and exhaustion should permit. It's Rachel's ringtone.

"Are you alright?" His voice is too harsh, much too harsh for _her._

"What? Bruce? Yes. I'm all right. But Harvey…"

Silence, and he's bolt upright, adrenaline zapping. "Where is he?" Danger. Danger, he's been found, after hours in the cupboard – a good right hook, he had, bruised the Batman when he finally got back to let him out…

"In the bathroom." She's whispering now, rich with worry. "He's scared, Bruce, he needs some answers…"

"You know I can't give them." The growl is there, unprovoked, no Kevlar in his nostrils.

"Batman can." A shaky breath. "Please, you should see him…"

Her voice trembles, and his mind's flashing through Rachel falling and screaming, bruises around Dent's neck like a collar, Joker's hands on her, the closet door rattling screaming, _I know they're dead let me out goddamnit where am I let me out…_

"It' not possible, Rachel, think. How did you find Batman?"

"I'll tell him I called Gordon."

"And when he stops by to thank Gordon tomorrow?"

"Fine, you called me, and it was untraceable. Please, Bruce, he's coming,"

"Don't use my name." Dent could walk right in, think god-knows-what. Bad decision, this was a bad, bad choice but maybe Dent deserved it and she was so desperate and maybe he wanted to. "Tell him to meet me at the docks. Outside the Come Rite In. An hour."

Click and the call was done, before she could say thank you, before she could say anything, before he could think the better of this. Answers, Dent deserved answers and maybe if he knew – not everything, no, but enough, enough to trust him, enough to fight the Joker, enough to keep that shake out of Rachel's voice, the force out of his poster-perfect smile… A bad plan, but maybe a necessary one.

***

This was starting to seem like a bad idea.

Harvey would have expected more trouble, slinking around this neighborhood in the dark – of course, Batman wouldn't have to worry about that. Maybe Batman was to thank for his safe passage, come to think of it, but the mob had been gunning for him long enough to trust the little prickle of fear running across his shoulder blades. He was being followed, that much he was sure of.

One block left… He took the time to peer at the street in front of him. Two dumpsters, big enough to hide at least four people between them, but no blind spots, thank god. No alleys. He held his breath. No rustling, nothing moving behind him, unless… JESUS. No, just a rat. Oh yeah. This was a bad idea.

Footfalls sounded too loud, bringing his tail closer, closer. Break the rhythm of the walk, make it harder for them to follow you without tipping off their location. A few steps more and there it was, half the lights in the neon sign were out, the rest fizzling unpleasantly, dull through a thick grey coating. "om t nn: C NCY." Classy digs, Batman. As if he lived here.

And now the worst part. The waiting. Rachel had been sure, sure that it was him – and hadn't she talked to him, wouldn't she know, she would never if she weren't sure – but after this, after tonight all bets were off. Elaborate, yes, but it didn't seem like this new guy, to lure him out to a neighborhood where he'd be just another scream. Not public, not showy. Unless this Joker was planning something _special…_

Whoosh! A heavy weight in front of him, his hand on his gun, a hard glove covering it. Ohgodohgodohgod. Calm, Harvey. It's him. A deep breath. "About time."

"You've been followed." A click and Batman's fist is full of cash. "We can't talk out here. Get room 313. All night." Jesus, this place must rent by the hour… Rough hands on him, suddenly, pushing his hat down, the zipper of his coat climbing all the way up until the fleece covers his mouth, kisses the bottom of his nose. And then he's gone, eyeblink fast, silent for all his bulk.

Better not to stand here, think about whether this is a crime in progress, whether he's obliged to stop it, who's following him, why… Calm down, Dent. You've already come this far. Go just a little farther.

And there he is, inside, staring down at paisley carpet that was probably red once. A jittery clerk, too skinny, track-marks down his arm, stares. Too interested? Of course he stands out here. Not just because he's come alone. An idea, a vocal disguise, he tries on the Batman's growl. "Room 313 please. All night."

"Please?" the clerk snicker-wheezes, rifling through a rack of keys. "Awright, buddy, you _did_ say the magic word." Harvey stares at the desk, hoping the guy can't see more than his beat up old baseball cap. Plunk. A key, 313 scrawled on the plastic tag in Sharpie. "That'll be one-oh-four plus tax."

No way in hell this pace charges that much, but the clerk, the open door, all these mirrors… Guilt lodges in the pit of his stomach as he turn his back, counts out Batman's cash. God knows if the man can afford it. Someday when they meet again – they'll meet again, yes they will, they're on the same team, he has to make Batman see that, he will – he'll pay him back. Half, at least.

He casually pulls one hand inside a pocket, stretching the fleece so the clerk will clearly see the outline of his gun. Just in case – place like this, you know he'd be looking to rob. Right on the money – the man's grin droops, eyes on the bulge at his side as he pushes the register across the counter. Funny, that they bother with the legal formalities at a place like this. Might mean something – a high class ring running out of here, maybe money laundering. Something more than street-corner tricks. He'll have to come back here someday. Someday, when he's got the time, he'll poke around.

The names on the stained legal paper make him snort. Ima Onatop. Hugh Hefner. M.M. Biggerstaff. He takes the pen – thank god it was cold enough for gloves, who knows if this guy has a camera, buddies who can do hand identification – and scrawls H. Dawes. He wants to laugh at himself – no answer, she said, here's his answer and no wonder she's got her doubts – but the sound might come out a little too honest, laugh familiar to a tv-junkie of a crook.

Time to go – Batman's fast, don't want to keep him waiting. Better take the stairs, too, god knows about the elevator maintenance in a place like this. "Hey pal," the clerk hollers after him. "You expecting company?"

"Maybe," Harvey growls, liking the way this false, deeper voice purrs in his throat.

"Maybe?" The clerk giggles, wheezy, unhealthy. "You're a coy sonuvabitch, mister."

Harvey ignores him and begins the long climb up unsteady stairs.


	2. Chapter 2

It's quieter than Harvey expected. Slow night, maybe, or good soundproofing. In any case, he's glad, so glad, not to hear moans and screams and proof that he shouldn't be turning a blind eye out here.

It's safer, too. He doesn't want to think about how Batman knew 313 was at the end of a little dogs-leg, one place in the hotel nobody had any business walking by. Maybe he does live here. Maybe he's the day clerk, taking hush money and turning it around into gadgets and suits and hospital bills. Nah. Too close, too criminal. Maybe he's the janitor – knows the layout, knows what happens but doesn't profit from it and dreams, someday, of saving those poor women and maybe even the night clerk. Someday, when he has time.

His hand's on his gun before he processes the rustling. He can see that it's just a rat, another goddamn rat scaring a year off his life. The laughter leaks out of him, hysterical, too high. Rats and bats and Dents, oh my.

You wouldn't know that he'd come back except for the busted shade clattering against the window, the dingy neon sign outside vibrating - one gloved hand must have grabbed it for momentum to turn. One last chuckle escapes. It hangs there, choked, between them. "You sure know this place well."

He's just standing there, Batman, huge and solid and hunched over like an Egyptian statue. The jaw jutting out of his mask would be strong even if it weren't clenched tight, tight as the fistful of film he's glaring at. "This was a bad idea," he rasps, almost comically. Does that armor choke his breath? "I shouldn't put you at risk. Your reputation at risk. You're everything to this city."

Harvey couldn't hold back a snort. "Everything? I don't think so. Twenty years with nothing but darkness until one day, an ordinary citizen says enough is enough."

"You are that hero. You said enough is enough. Every day, you show Gotham that law and order can triumph over corruption and violence."

He can feel the bruises around his neck, harsh reminders that it's his part to be protected. "You think I don't know why I get to play the good guy?"

"You are the good guy."

"Tell that to Lao." Batman's fist clenches tighter, tight enough to rustle the film in his hand. Finally, some sign that he's real, he moves. "Tell that to all the scumbags I put in jail last week with his evidence and your funny money. I can play by the rules because you break them for me." He's frozen again, Batman, looming, solid. Does he even blink? "Don't get me wrong. I pray for the day when that's all finished and you can safely retire. Some days, I even think it won't be a long time coming." A deep breath – to say all this, to the man himself – "And some days I take a look at the files in Public Corruption or a terrorist dressed as a goddamn clown kills a judge and my chief of police."

"Joker." The way he says it – Harvey's spine tingles, his stomach warms all at once. Batman looks bigger, fiercer, stronger. Thank god he's on our side.

"We'll get him. Even the crooked cops are mad now." Batman's smile does little to warm up his face. "And I'd better get a swing at him next time. Hard to do much when you're passed out and stuffed in a cupboard."

"It had to be done. You were the target. He came for you himself."

"So next time, we know what he's after."

"There won't be a next time." There it goes again – he's standing straighter, voice deeper, pose just this shy of a cliché. The treacherous, traitor thought that maybe Batman likes this, just a little…

Harvey shakes his head. "My best guess? We'll see him at the funeral, if not before."

The Batman frowns at that. "How's your home security?"

"Pretty good. I have silent alarms, and a few tricks I learned from the beat cops." He's uncomfortable, suddenly – Batman is looking at him. Harvey reaches up to pull the baseball cap from his head, just for something to do, just to break that hard gaze. "I have good reason to be careful."

"Rachel."

Something about the way Batman says her name doesn't sit right. "I asked her to marry me tonight, you know." A laugh, harsh and hollow. "She said she didn't have an answer." Christ, how is this coming out of his mouth? A virtual stranger – the goddamn Batman – and he's going on about his love life.

"Maybe she's not ready." A funny feeling… The other guy? It can't be. Not Batman - Rachel's too smart to hang her heart on a shadow, and too honest to keep it quiet if it were more than a crush.

It's too surreal, too awful to think about, stupid to think about it now, now when he's got the chance to know this mysterious Batman. Especially if it is true… Stupid, Harvey, get that out of your head. He pats the bed next to him, tries not to think about the last time the blankets were washed. "Have a seat." Oh. "That is, if you can sit in that."

"I can sit," Batman grunts. He's favoring one side and Harvey's sick, absurdly grateful that this man trusts him enough to telegraph an injury.

Harvey tries to look away but his eyes slide back to the suit. It's so close – he can see little shapes and patterns in it, cracks and seams. "Can I touch it?" The words slip out, too quick to think the better of them.

The Batman freezes, frown deepening. This is it. This is the part where Harvey's gone too far, and his new buddy slips out the window for good. But then he's reaching up, a click and a grunt and he's sliding the long, stiff sleeve off his left arm. The arm inside is almost mythically muscular. Maybe he's finally lost it, maybe that Scarecrow's at it again because he looks at it and all he sees is patriotic - red cuts, white skin, blue bruises. The glove actually touches him – ohmigod, he must have been staring, stupid with this fragile truce. Snap out of it, Dent.

It's lighter than Harvey would have thought, more flexible, too. His grip slips, almost drops it and it goes rigid with the sharp movement. He changes his grip, grasping more firmly around the wrist and hiss. Vicious spikes, lost in the carpet and well into the floor. Jesus. Half an inch and that would have been his foot.

Is that a laugh? "I did that too, the first time." Definitely a laugh, and Batman's voice lightened up a bit, too.

Harvey grins back at him. "Is that how you came by your red badge of courage, there?" Jesus Christ – stitches, huge and jagged like Frankenstein.

"That was dogs. BIG dogs." Harvey smiled a little bit at the force of it. "The Russian's using rottweilers now." The serious voice was back. "I forget to tell Gordon."

"Yeah, well, you're telling me." He sounds so goddamned defensive. The Batman just inclines his head and Harvey can feel himself blush. Overreaction, and a stupid one. Batman trusts Gordon.

The silence is awkward, heavy and Harvey runs a hand over his hair to ward it off. He must feel it too; he rolls his free shoulder. Crack, pop and Harvey can see the stitches caught on the rough, exposed edge of the shoulder. "Hold still. You're gonna tear those stitches."

"Thanks," Batman grunts. The angle is too awkward, sitting next to him like this, so Harvey's up and too close, suddenly, wedged between the Batman's legs, one hand braced on his armored shoulder. Trust, he thinks, even though Batman could take him apart if he made a false move. Maybe that's trust, too.

These stitches are neater than the mess on his upper arms, but the sutures have frayed where they rub against the seam in the armor. "I don't suppose you have a bandaid," Harvey mutters. He can feel the Batman's choked laugh, hot air against his stomach.

Harvey settles for smoothing the sutures under the edge of the shoulder – they'll almost certainly rip again, but he's not about to use a bit of this blanket as padding. Better torn stitches than syphilis of the shoulder. Think, Harvey. There's got to be padding in this room. Toilet paper? No, it'll tear. Of course – his t-shirt, even if it is one of his favorites, a football team shirt from back when his nicknames were nicer.

He shucks off his fleece, kicks it away when it tangles against his feet. It's a good thing his scoutmaster can't see him now, struggling to rip a bit off the hem of his t-shirt. He pulls a bit too hard, knocks Batman in the nose. "Sorry," he mutters. "I need it for padding." What, he's too stupid to back up a step?

"Thanks."

Batman's breath is hot against his stomach as Harvey leans back in to smooth his makeshift padding over the fraying stitches. It's real, almost too real against the pure absurdity of this room, this situation, everything. A deep breath to stop his goddamn nervous laughter. Batman's breath hitches too, gusting harder against his stomach. Suddenly Harvey is focused, laser focused on the stitches, the texture of his t-shirt against his fingers. From this angle you can see bone-deep bruises trailing down from the shoulder into the dark depths of the suit. "That must have hurt." His fingers have taken on a life of their own, ghosting against the bruises. To let Batman know what he's talking about. Of course.

The deep growl – is it deeper? "I fell off a building."

He can't stop the odd, breathy chuckle from escaping him as he takes one step back, far enough to see him, let him see what it meant, even if he was trapped in a goddamn cupboard even if Rachel still shook hours afterward because, oh god, if he'd lost her, if the Joker had killed her or him too and took it all from Gotham in one fell swoop. His throat's dry, must be - his voice catches. "You saved my life."

Batman smiles and this time Harvey's close enough to see it reach his eyes, to know he understands all of what Harvey said. "You'll save my city."

He's not quite sure how it happened – didn't plan it, god no, a man, this man – but he's dropped to his knees somehow and his arms encircle Kevlar shoulders and his lips his lips god his lips are on Batman's.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's note: The following is a love scene. I have edited the language and all that and feel that it's comfortably within bounds, but please take the M rating seriously.

The taste wasn't what Harvey expected - had he expected? Oh god maybe he _had_ - rubber, grit, just enough metal to set his teeth on edge. Metal and dirt, like the city. Not quite real. Not like Rachel, who tasted like French fries or mouthwash.

She's not here – doesn't know where she wants to be. Not now. Not the time to think of her, when the Batman's cupped a gentle hand around his jaw, careful movements belied by his frantic mouth. He tastes right and Harvey's surprised by the fire blooming in him, surprised that he wants this, wants more of this. Harvey presses forward like he can weld them together but it's not enough, not at all and his hands clutch at Batman's shoulders to draw him in.

FWAP. Something whizzes by, fast enough to create wind. Harvey gasps, turns to look and there they are, blades as long as his fingers twanging back and fourth in the ceiling. "Jesus!" There's some blonde hair on his fingers. They had come close, that close, he could have _died_…

Ting. Ting. Ting. Blades, landing in a heap on the floor. Batman's hands rove all over the suit, pinching and twisting and pressing just so. Ting. Ting. The pile of blades and traps and spikes keeps growing and Harvey wonders if it will be awkward, afterwards, when Batman has to put himself back together while Harvey pulls on a t-shirt. His eyes follow Batman's hands to his thighs to above – surely not blades, not _there_ - half-expecting a zipper. Does he want that? Does it matter, this has gone so far anyway and Batman has stilled. Harvey looks at him, the Batman, frozen and unsure and staring at Harvey's face like it has all the answers. His eyes are brown, Harvey thinks, and some part of him stores that away for later, but most of him reaches out, takes the pale, bare hand standing stark against black armor, presses a hot, breathy kiss to the palm.

Batman's frozen, staring, those eyes molten now and Harvey pulls back, just an inch, sucks two fingers in his mouth. There are scars, even here, rough against his tongue. He fancies his can feel the little ridges of fingerprints marking his mouth on the inside.

And then he can feel everything, every inch of his body covered and warm and safe, Batman on top of him, pinning him down, kisses hot and fast and desperate. It feels – oh god, it feels and then a rough hand pushes up his shirt and nothing no-one has ever felt the sheer heat of the hand on his belly, brushing the waist of his pants. Batman's paused again, and god, he vibrates with breath and Harvey can feel it. He lets his hand slip down, down, down until Batman's breathing harder. "Can you…" But his throat's dry, he's got no air. He swallows, starts again. "Can it come open?"

A chuckle – oh my GOD, that Harvey can feel _that_. "Even Batman has to piss."

Harvey swallows again, fingers curling against a rubberized shoulder. "So open it."

A harsh breath and Batman rolls off him, fingers fumbling against his suit. A click, and Harvey's breath comes sharp because it there's and it's real and it's the goddamn _Batman_ and… and fair's fair. His fingers shake, clutch too hard at the hem of his t-shirt as he pulls it off. Step one. He can do this, he can, and oh he _wants_ to.

He's up, jeans unbuttoned when he realizes Batman's _watching_ him. He's still, implacable, but somehow that makes it hotter, the little things – mouth just open, fingers curled into the blanket, he's tensed forward – that scream want louder than moaning. Harvey bends, a little slower than necessary, undoes the sloppy knots on his tennis shoes. He can't see Batman but he can feel him, feel Batman's eyes devour him as he slips off his shoe, his sock. He trips, wobbles a little as he shifts his weight to pull the other off. Real graceful, Harvey.

But Batman doesn't laugh, doesn't notice, doesn't move as Harvey straightens, undoes his zipper. This is it. This is real.

"Let me," Batman growls, and his hands are in the band of Harvey's underwear, pushing, and the scratch of the glove he still has on shouldn't feel so good. Oh. OH. He's sinking, Batman, like he's going to sink to his knees and for a moment Harvey _wants_ so hard he can't see. But that isn't right, not at all – he shouldn't be on his knees for anyone, anyone.

"No," Harvey whispers, pushes Batman back to the bed. "Not like that." He pushes his pants the rest of the way down, steps out of them. It's not that different, really, the messy mechanics and logistics with a man and not a woman. He's done this before, perched on the edge of a bed and then stretched, stretched till he's face down, till he can feel breath against his dick. He just hasn't breathed against one, watched it twitch toward him like this. He hasn't opened his mouth wide and lunged forward because if he's going to do this he's going to _do _it. It's not so bad.

Oh, it's good, hot mouth on him, Batman's chin just rough enough to send prickles down every nerve he's got. Oh. Harvey realizes he's frozen, not nice of him, and he's back at it. How hard can it be, just open your mouth and suck as hard as you can, maybe tongue, he remembers tongue…

Hands on his hips, shoving him back a little. "I can't see you," Batman mutters, ghosting hot breath sending a shiver all the way to Harvey's head.

"Oh." Harvey rolls, poles himself along on his elbows, awkward, until he's right way around on the bed and he can lose himself in Batman's drowning-deep eyes. "Oh," he breathes, and Batman's kissing him again, mouth pressing hard enough to bruise his lips but the hand cradling his head is so gentle. How long has it been, how long has he been doing this, humping up against an armored leg like a dog but oh it feels so good especially – ah – especially when his he brushes against Batman, just brushes and it isn't _enough_. It isn't enough. "You could," he whispers, when Batman's hand slips down behind him, pressing him closer. Batman freezes, hand on Harvey's ass and Harvey almost wishes he could pull back far enough to see him, what he's thinking, what he wants but then maybe he'd have time to think. Better this way, to nip at Batman's jaw and let his eyes slip down to the bat sign on his chest, slip closed and whisper, "I want you to."

Batman shudders, runs teeth and tongue against Harvey's ear, his neck. His hot mouth, lingering to press too hard too long _so good_ against the bite marks Rachel had left just above his nipple. Don't think about her, Harvey, and it's so easy not to think, to clutch at Kevlar and one warm arm and groan like he's been stabbed. So easy to think of Batman, ragged breaths and soft touches and he _deserves _this.

"Do it." He's ready, he's ready, he's going to do this.

"I won't hurt you." Right. He knows this. They need something slick, but if they stop… It'll be over, Harvey knows. Fragile and crazy and god he wants this. Right. Neosporin, in the pocket of his fleece because she insisted. In case he tore his cuts open, she said, and what was he thinking punching armor bare-fisted anyway? Batman needs it and he needs it and she'd understand, goddamnit, and she didn't have an answer and he sits up, fast as he can and there it is in his pocket.

"Here."

Batman stares at the little tube and _growls_ teeth savaging his lip and Harvey's flipped, like he's ten pounds, like he's nothing and Batman's face, Batman' mouth is… Never knew, never knew that it could feel like this, that a tongue – oh god – a tongue like fireworks. He's screaming, almost sobbing, can't stop his hips from pounding down into the mattress because he's got to… He's got to…

And then he's on his back again, Batman's mouth on his and he can _taste_ it, not half so filthy as he expected and oh. There's a finger in him and it kind of hurts and it kind of doesn't and Batman's frozen, jaw locked up, muscles in his arm knotted. He's waiting, won't hurt him and Harvey _relaxes_, lets go and watches Batman's face as the finger starts to move. Watches his jaw slacken as Harvey breathes faster, his eyelashes flutter when Harvey gasps. Another finger and Harvey can't stand it, pulls him down, kisses sloppily because he _needs_ to. And then he's closer than before, forehead pressed against Harvey's, eyes blurring into one and it's _time_. "Do it." Harvey can feel it – Batman shudders, his whole body strains. "Please."

Batman rears up and presses at the Neosporin, carefully flattening it out from the bottom of the tube until there's nothing left. He smiles, eyes on Harvey's as he slathers the sticky gel over his dick and then he's back, pressing close for another long, sloppy-gorgeous kiss. He pulls back, aiming – this is really going to happen, it's happening, it's happening. Harvey feels too full, stretched, it _hurts_, but oh, the look on his face, Batman's face and then he relaxes. He can see that the suit won't bend enough to pull Batman close, not close enough to kiss and then Batman jerks and thrusts one, two, three times and _groans_ visceral, hot and Harvey's even fuller, slippery as Batman falls down onto him, heavy and panting. He's hard, still, dizzy with wanting but it feels good, warm, to wrap his arms around the Batman and feel him limp, not at all rigid, not guarded, still strong.

And then he's stirring, his mouth finds Harvey's and his hand's on Harvey's dick, warm and rough and _OH_ that didn't take long but it's lasting, almost too hard, like he's flying, like he's dying and the next thing he knows he's rolled right off the bed.

He opens his eyes and there they are, Batman's blades. He's missed again by inches. "I think," Harvey says, around his smile, "that you're trying to kill me."

"I hear that's the hot new trend," Batman rasps, voice near as deep as it had been with his nosepiece.

Harvey laughs, belly laughs and levers himself off the floor. Batman's standing, now, ready to catch him and pull him into another bone-melting kiss. Batman's fingers press into his sides, clutching him, then let go, smoothing up Harvey's back slow, so slow, like they're mapping him out. "It's five a.m.," Batman rasps, fingers coming to rest curled around Harvey's shoulders. "You're due in court."

Harvey's surprised that the sharp, hot thrill of prospective victory comes to him, even now. Batman is smiling – he can see it, he likes it, that Harvey is ready to leave. No. That Harvey's ready to fight.

But first… Harvey places careful fingers under Batman's jaw, strokes it, tilts his head just so. One kiss, slow and warm and Batman's smiling into it. One kiss, and then he's got to go back to Rachel and court and reality.

It ends, like it has to, and Harvey's left to scramble for his clothes. He's about to pull his t-shirt on and Batman's behind him, suddenly, his hand on Harvey's wrist. "Let me," he breathes, and Harvey surrenders the shirt, surrenders himself to Batman's soft touches as he pulls the shirt over his head, strokes it in to place. As he hands Harvey his underwear and drops down to help him step into it, smoothes the band against his waist, his rough glove catching on the cotton. Harvey can't stop himself from kissing him again, hot and wanting but he's got at least two cases to read before his argument, got to shower… He breaks the kiss and Batman backs away, watches him as he pulls on his pants and sits down to deal with his shoes and socks.

It's time. Batman walks him to the door and Harvey's arms twine around the hard, black neck of their own volition. "Will I see you again?"

"You will," Batman breathes but Harvey knows he won't, not really, not like this with his guard down, mouth deliciously swollen and his limp penis hanging out of the suit.

One last kiss – really, Harvey, this is the last one – and it's time.

He closes the door slowly, too slowly, as Batman bends down to gather his weapons.


End file.
